


Research, Just Research

by Cezet



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 17:36:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7062808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cezet/pseuds/Cezet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A New Era program evaluation goes off-track when Dean Ambrose is around</p>
            </blockquote>





	Research, Just Research

“We’re bringing in a team of organizational psychologists to do an evaluation of the corporate structure and of talent relations.  You may see some people you don’t know around observing and each of you will be scheduled a time for interviewing.  Every employee, no matter what job, will be part of this process so we can make sure we’re doing things in the best way possible as we transition into this New Era of WWE,” Stephanie McMahon told the talent and crew back stage.

A collective buzz went up among those gathered.  What was an organizational psychologist?  If they said the wrong thing, would they get fired?  Was it a trick?  No one was very thrilled about the prospect.  Over the next several weeks, though, groups of unknown people began touring the backstage areas at shows.  It was reported that the same was happening at the corporate offices, too.  The people had clip boards and, though they smiled and nodded, there was a distinct wariness on the part of the employees.  Slowly, the group began to split off from each other.  They made small talk, carried things or helped with set up to their abilities and were accepted into the day-to-day routine.  They traveled with the shows, sometimes sitting in on events like radio spots and Make-A-Wish fulfillments.  There was no part of the company they didn’t pay attention to.  Workers who had previously felt as though they didn’t matter suddenly had someone to tell about the minute details of their days.

Fern Smith, lead analyst for the WWE project, was quietly thrilled.  She’d hand-picked her team.  Those who tended toward the more formal and conservative went to the corporate office where they’d play their roles under corporate rules, ferreting out the things she needed to know about that part of the organization.  The chameleons she brought to integrate into the shows.  They were all the kinds of people who could work a room, making everyone feel comfortable and getting the data that wouldn’t come out in a formal interview.  She knew her teams and had faith in each of them.  Fern herself bounced back and forth between shows and corporate, listening to what her people were finding and starting to build a conceptual model of the organization, suggesting routes of inquiry to pursue, cheerleading her teams, pretty much everything.  She’d had years of experience and had worked hard to get to the lead analyst position.  Her team was moving like a well-oiled machine.

Formal interviews were on-going when there, suddenly, was a snag.

“Hello, Fern?” asked an unrecognizable voice over her cell phone, though the screen displayed that the call was coming from her interviewer Samantha.

“Samantha? Is that you?” Fern asked.

“Yes, I’m so sorry, but I’m terribly sick.  I can barely talk and have a high fever, but I’m scheduled to do interviews today with some of the talent,” said Samantha.

“You’re obviously in no state to do that, Samantha.  You rest and take care of yourself.  I’ll get the interviews handled,” replied Fern.

“Thanks, Fern.  I’m sorry to let you down.”

“Samantha, you’re human, not a superhero.  Getting sick is just part of life and you haven’t let me down at all.  Remember how your interview with Mr. Owens went?  You were masterful and no one else could have gotten that data.  You rest up so you can do it again soon.”

“You’re the best boss ever, Fern.  Bye,” said Samantha, sounding sick, but relieved.

“Take care,” Fern replied.

Damn, damn, damn, thought Fern as she ended the call.  Samantha was the third interviewer down with this awful bug.  She’d redistributed interviews among interviewers when the other two called, but doing so again just wasn’t possible.  There weren’t enough hours.  Fern really did not want to reschedule anyone.  The timeline on this project wasn’t that tight, but these were talent interviews and their schedules were so crazy that it would take a miracle to set them all back up.  They’d been doing interviews at the arenas to minimize their impact on the workers.  There was nothing for it, she supposed, she’d just have to put on her interviewer hat and take Samantha’s schedule for the day.

“How does it feel to be back in the saddle, boss?” asked John, one of her most experienced interviewers, “It’s been a while since you were on-ground with us like this.”

Fern had mentored John when he first came to the company straight out of his doctoral program and they’d stayed close.  When she became lead on this project, he was the first person she’d requested for the team.

“Good,” she replied, “Kind of like stretching after you’ve been sitting for too long.”

They smiled at each other and went back to planning the schedule.  Fern had detailed notes about her interview participants thanks to the team and she was reviewing them.  Four in-depth interviews in one day was a lot, but she’d done more in one day before and didn’t sweat it.

She walked into the small, private room that she was using for the interviews.  It was calming and neatly-appointed with two comfortable chairs and a small table with bottles of water, plus a work station for her post-interview notes at the back of the room.  She was preparing for her fourth and final interview of the day.  The previous interviews had gone spectacularly and she was thrilled with the information she’d gotten from Zack Ryder (who really needed a push, he was such an earnest young man), Paul Heyman (a shrewd man who she would have loved to make a job offer if she thought he would have accepted) and JoJo (a bright young woman who was obviously still trying to find her way in the organization).

Her final interview was with Dean Ambrose, who had the tag line “Lunatic Fringe.”  She chuckled to herself.  She’d been watching the television shows and educating herself about WWE since taking the project and she found his antics humorous.

She heard someone walk up to the door, walk away, walk back and walk off again.  The next time the person approached, she opened the door and smiled.

“Hello, Mr. Ambrose.  Thank you for talking with me today.”

Dean looked at her with suspicion.  “Didn’t have a choice.  Don’t like headshrinkers, neither.”

“Then it is a good thing I’m not one, isn’t it?  Come sit down.  Would you like a bottle of water?”  
He sat and nodded.  She handed him one from the table.  He rolled it back and forth in his hands, looking down at it, but didn’t open it. 

“Isn’t there usually a couch?” he asked, “There’s always been a couch before.”

“Mr. Ambrose,” Fern began, only to be interrupted when he said, “Dean.  Just Dean.”

“Dean,” she began again, “This is not an evaluation.  This is just you telling me about your job and how you see your role in the WWE.”

“Seriously?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

Dean jumped up and started pacing in the small room.  There was a sense of barely restrained violence about him and Fern sat very still.  “So, I spill my guts to you and you run and tell corporate about it so they can fire me, right?” he asked, angrily.

“No, not at all,” she said, soothingly, “The interviews are the property of my company, not WWE.  They’ll only get aggregate data in our report.  No names, no other identifying information.”

Dean snorted.  “Yeah, right.  Whatever.  Ask your questions.”

“Could you please sit down?” she asked and was happy to see that he did.

Fern began the interview with questions that she hoped would make him comfortable.  They were light and gentle and easy to answer.  She smiled approvingly at him.  From the notes she had on him, his home life hadn’t been the best and she figured praise and approval would motivate him to share.

Soon, she had him telling stories of his coworkers and apparent best friends, Seth Rollins and Roman Reigns and sharing his opinions about the set up of talent contracts.  Dean was a fantastic story-teller and it seemed to be his way of answering questions and making sense of things.  There was a story for each answer he gave her.  After one funny story, Fern found herself laughing along with him.  Suddenly, he said, “You’re even more beautiful when you laugh.”

Fern was completely caught off-guard by this statement.  She hadn’t considered that anyone might say anything like that to her.  She was ten years or more years older than him and, while she kept herself in shape and well-groomed, she had never been a beauty.  Fern had always focused on her education and career, not on relationships or attractions. 

“Ah, erhm, thank you,” she said, not knowing what else to say, and then quickly she moved on to the next question of the interview.  Fern felt flustered and as though she was suddenly noticing every movement of his body.  She brushed it off and continued the interview.

Dean went on telling his stories as question answers, seeming to become more comfortable.  He slouched down in his chair and finally opened the bottle of water he’d been fiddling with.  Fern found herself noticing the line of his jaw as he tipped his head back to drink.  When he looked back at her, he smirked and winked.  Egads, had he noticed her noticing him?  Was he flirting with her?  Fern felt her face warm.  This was inappropriate and simply wouldn’t do.

Fern frowned and went to the next question, intent on wrapping up the interview as fast as she could.  Eventually, they’d gotten through everything she needed.

“That was my last question, Dean.  I appreciate your time today.  Was there anything else you can think of that I didn’t ask that you think I should have?”

“You didn’t ask for my number,” he said, grinning.

Fern laughed. “I’m sure if there are any follow up questions we have for you, we’ll be able to get your contact information.”

She stood up and so did Dean.  Instead of moving towards the door, he stepped towards her.  She hadn’t fully realized when he walked in how much taller he was and suddenly felt dwarfed.

“I didn’t mean for follow up and you know it,” he stated.

“Mr. Ambrose, if you’re done being funny, I really must be getting to work,” she replied, backing up the few steps behind her chair to where the desk was.  She felt the backs of her legs bump the desk slightly.

He followed her, standing just inches in front and reached his hand out to cup her cheek.  “Dean.  Just Dean,” he said quietly.  Then, he leaned forward and kissed her gently.  Fern felt as though her heart stopped.  She brought her hands up to push him away only to find that they betrayed her by splaying over his chest.  When he felt that he wrapped his arms around her closing the space between their bodies and pressing her against the desk.  The kiss became less gentle and more hungry.  The little voice Fern usually listened closely to was screaming at her to stop this immediately and she firmly told it to shut up.  She slid her arm up and around his neck, twining her fingers in his hair and pulling him closer.  He broke the kiss and began kissing her jaw, moving down to her throat. At the same time, his hand slipped under her shirt, massaging her breast through her bra.  She heard herself moan quietly.

His mouth moved back up to capture hers again and his other expertly unclasped her bra, freeing her breasts to be explored by his hands.  She nearly sobbed with need as he touched and flicked and pinched her nipples.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.  The two sprang apart and Fern called out, “Just a moment,” in a voice much more calm than she felt.  She re-hooked her bra, adjusting as she walked over to the door and hoping she looked presentable.  She opened the door and found John there.

“Sorry to interrupt your interview, Fern, but it has run long and they need Mr. Ambrose for something.”

“Thank you, John, we were actually just finishing.  I’ll send Mr. Ambrose right out.”

John nodded and walked back down the short hallway.  Fern closed the door and turned back to where Dean was standing, leaning against the desk and looking like sin made flesh.

“Dean, they need you for your next appointment,” she said, unnecessarily. 

He pushed off the desk and walked to her.  “And I need you,” he murmured, kissing her again.  This time, she did push him back gently, though she was returning his kiss.

“You have to go.  This is inappropriate and I do not do things like this.  I should never have…” she was saying as he growled and pressed forward again.

“Don’t do that.  Don’t push me away.  This is good, not inappropriate.  Stop thinking and kiss me again” he said into her ear, biting the lobe as he finished.  Her body arched against him of its own accord when he did that.  He reached his arm behind her, pulling her hips forward and grinding against her.

Gasping, she said, “You have to go.  You’re going to get us caught if you don’t.”

“That scares you, doesn’t it?” he asked, nuzzling her neck.

“Yes, this is my career.  The fallout of this would be very bad,” she told him.

He pulled back and nodded. “I understand that.  But I also understand this,” he said, waving his hand back and forth between the two of them.  “This isn’t over,” he told her, but he did, at last, walk out of the room, leaving her breathless and wondering what in the world she had just done.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
